


Broken

by Lady_Nerd52



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Wyatt's Still Brooding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 19:18:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8765746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Nerd52/pseuds/Lady_Nerd52
Summary: After the events of Space Race, Wyatt receives a not-so-unexpected visitor. Can be considered a loose continuation of Pieces with allusions to that tantalizing preview for "The Last Ride of Bonnie and Clyde." Which means, of course, that whatever I write in terms of speculation will likely be wrong. C'est la vie.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **AN:** Don't own a damned bit of _Timeless_. Just playing in the sandbox. 
> 
> I'd originally intended to write this from Lucy's POV, to complement Pieces being in Logan's POV, but it would appear Logan had more to say.
> 
> Assume spoilers through "Space Race."

The knock at his door didn't surprise him. In fact, he was so _not_ surprised, there was already an extra glass waiting on his coffee table. The fact that she'd never come to his home, nor had he ever extended an invitation, was irrelevant. He'd known, the moment he read those items from Flynn's unredacted file, that she would seek him out at some point. And when she hadn't waylaid him before he left, he'd known it would be here. And truth was—if she hadn't sought him out, he likely would have gone looking for her. Because tonight—after all they'd learned—was no night for either of them to be alone.

That recently, he'd spent most of his time with her and the time away from her was starting to feel odd was also irrelevant to their current situation.

As was whatever bullshit his subconscious was whispering.

At her knock, he silently opened the door, exchanging a single telling glance as she passed him on her way into his living room. As if she'd done it a thousand times before, she divested herself of coat and shoes, and curled up on his battered leather sofa. He watched as she took a long, curious look around, taking in the surroundings. Not that there was much to look at—the surroundings were pretty spartan—half nod to his military background where everything you possessed could be tossed in a kit at a moment's notice and half because this place, it was little more than somewhere to sleep. No art or knickknacks or anything that provided clues to who he was. Fitting, since he didn't even know who the hell he was these days. The only thing of a personal nature lived in his bedroom and even that—the photo of he and Jess on their wedding day—resided in a bedside drawer, where he wasn't confronted every time he entered the room with proof of his failure.

As Lucy's gaze met his again, the expression in her deep brown gaze struck an answering chord deep within him. He shouldn't have been surprised. He already knew that she got it. That she understood that rootlessness and off-kilter feeling as if nothing in her world fit or was quite right. It's why she was here, right now, in his home, sitting on his couch and nodding with a rueful grin as he held up a bottle in silent question. As he poured them each a generous measure of the good single malt he generally saved for special occasions, he made note to pick up another bottle. Maybe two. The bottle that had been nearly full just weeks earlier was more than two-thirds empty. Guess there had been more than a few moments he deemed "special" in recent days.

For a long time they simply sat, embraced by worn, butter-soft leather as they sipped their whisky, each lost in their own thoughts. It wasn't odd or uncomfortable. Lucy was really easy to be quiet with. Something he'd learned during the gazebo. As his subconscious started muttering again, he swiftly downed what was left in his glass, allowing the sharp burn to drown out whatever the little bastard was saying. He didn't need to hear it. He poured himself another shot—not quiet as large as the first—and settled back into the cushions, taking a tentative listen and relieved that his subconscious seemed to have taken the hint and backed the hell off. With a grateful sigh, he took another leisurely sip of whisky, savoring the warmth of both the alcohol and Lucy's presence beside him.

He could easily get used to this. This sense of comfort, of relaxation. This, unlike so much else in his life, felt undeniably right.

it felt…normal.

As out of the ordinary—as downright bizarre—as the rest of his life was, he had to admit that these quiet moments with Lucy felt as normal as anything he'd experienced since Jessica's death.

Since long before Jessica's death, if he was being completely honest with himself.

He tensed, waiting for the sly insidious whispers his subconscious had delighted in during the months following Jess' death to start up with their accusations and and finger-pointing and shaming, but to his surprise, the only whispers came in the form of the sibilant crack and hiss of the flames from the fire he'd laid prior to Lucy's arrival. Almost like they were urging him to grab hold of what comfort he could while simultaneously mocking him for his paranoia. That was fine. He'd take the mocking every day of the week if he got these rare moments of quiet restorative calm in exchange.

Taking a deep, controlled breath, he turned his head and met her gaze, answering her raised eyebrow by pouring her another shot. With a sigh, she took another sip and relaxed further into the cushions, her sock-clad feet nudging his thigh as she settled herself. With his free hand, he lifted her ankles, encouraging her to stretch her legs out across his as he lifted his feet and propped them on the coffee table. Again, they settled into silence—this one no less comfortable than before, but Wyatt's instincts, honed to an almost painful intensity, picked up a hint of something different in their quiet.

What she'd come here for—it was time. But she wasn't quite certain how to broach it, so it would be up to him.

"Flynn's a son of a bitch, Lucy. We both know there's nothing he won't do—"

"It's not him. Not really."

Her legs tensed against his, prompting him to place a hand on one of her knees—just resting it there, as if he was settling a skittish horse. After a few seconds, she relaxed beneath his hand, but he didn't bother removing his hand, opting to leave it on her leg as reassurance. Comfort.

_But for who?_

_Oh shut it._

He gave himself a hard, mental head-shake and returned his attention to Lucy, who was meditatively chewing on a nail.

"Luce?"

She blinked and came back to him.

"If it's not Flynn, then what?"

She dropped her gaze "Why did you act like the journal was a surprise?"

He'd been expecting this question ever since they returned from 1972—the only surprise was that it had taken her this long to ask.

"Couple reasons, actually." He took another sip of whisky, using those few seconds to compose the order of his thoughts. "For one, it's to our benefit if Flynn thinks he's driven a wedge between us."

He studied her face as she turned over his statement, clearly examining it from all sides, finally nodding in agreement.

"All right," she said, "that makes sense. But it doesn't explain why you acted so… _angry_ when we were in seventeen fifty-four. Why you still haven't told Rufus you knew about the journal before Flynn said anything."

Now it was his turn to tense, muscles of gut and legs tightening painfully. It was only with conscious effort that he kept his hand where it rested on her leg somewhat relaxed, only a slight tremor betraying his emotions.

"Wyatt?'

He looked down at her hand covering his, her thumb drawing a light pattern against his.

He knew the reasons—in his head they made perfect sense—but it was still difficult to articulate. Especially for him. Talking things out had never really been his strong suit. Then again, not talking things out had gotten him a world of hurt in the past, so maybe he needed to start figuring out how to express himself.

"I wasn't acting angry—I _was_ angry."

That expressive brow rose again and her thumb stilled against his, but she otherwise remained quiet, clearly willing to allow him to take his time.

"It was one thing to know about it in the abstract but to actually see it—to hear the things Flynn said you wrote…" His voice trailed off, but when she didn't jump in to save him by saying what they were both so obviously thinking, was obligated to actually say the crucial part of the statement out loud. "About me."

He sighed and slumped further into the cushions. "It was tough to hear, Lucy."

Tough—what a goddamned inadequate word. Hearing Flynn's lightly accented voice, where everything sounded like a smug jibe, confronting him with all his faults and weakness.—worse, what he said _Lucy_ perceived as his faults and weaknesses. Having it come so close on the heels of how she'd fought for his survival at the Alamo—how she'd made him feel for the first time in a long, long time that he was worth something, not just to their mission, but to her—was like rubbing salt in a wound that had only just begun to heal.

Hell, he might just pay folding money to be back in the midst of that firefight rather than have Flynn skewer him with that mocking stare again. Like he knew something Wyatt didn't. Or that Wyatt was just too stupid to understand. Tied to that damned chair he'd experienced a sick, helpless anger— that poor, thickheaded West Texas boy he'd once been staring down the bully who somehow always won.

He'd sworn that boy was long dead and buried, yet with one mocking glance, Flynn had destroyed that illusion.

Another thing to hate the son of a bitch for.

Lucy's thumb resumed its meditative rhythm, the edge of her nail providing an oddly soothing friction. "I am so sorry, Wyatt."

"I know." He sighed and drained the last of his whisky before learning forward to place his glass on the coffee table. The motion brought his chest into brief contact with their joined hands—just long enough for her hand to shift, her fingertips brushing his jaw as her palm came to rest over his heart. He froze for an instant, then slowly eased back against the cushions, holding her gaze with his as she moved with him, moving her legs off his lap and shifting so she was more closely aligned beside him. Not fully against him, but close enough he could feel the warmth radiating from her body. Close enough for her hand to remain on his chest. In the dark brown depths of her eyes he easily read her silent question—in response, he put his hand over hers, holding them together.

With a sigh, she dropped her head back to rest against the cushions. "As much as I wish I'd never learned of that damned journal's existence I can't help but wish I knew more."

A frisson of anxiety ran down Wyatt's spine and his grip reflexively tightened, as if he half expected her to take off to look for it right then and there. "Why the hell would you want to, Luce?"

All he knew was that he wanted to destroy the thing and end this madness and he was pretty certain she wanted the same. But even as he asked the question, he recognized it for the hypocrisy it was. Because wouldn't he be first in line to see what the hell in that journal was so important that Flynn was willing to risk history itself?

_Liar._

Wouldn't he be first in line to see what Lucy had written that was so important Flynn was convinced she'd eventually be on his side? Be first in line to see what else she'd written about him?

"I just want to know when I'm supposed to start writing the thing so I can make sure to never start it." She gave his shoulder a slight nudge and when he turned his head to meet her gaze, was shocked to find a faint glint of humor lighting the brown to a warm amber, not unlike the whisky they'd drunk. "You may just have to keep me out of any stationary shops or bookstores for the foreseeable future."

He chuckled. "Keep a historian out of a bookstore? I'm tough, but I'm not sure I'm up for that challenge."

She nudged his shoulder again. "Sure you are." Rather than retreat, she stayed right where she was, her body flush against his. So close, his steady breathing was ruffling strands of hair that had escaped from her loose ponytail.

"I'm counting on it."

Shades of what she'd said back at the gazebo when she'd asked him to do the unspeakable if it became necessary. While he hadn't been able to agree to her exact request—he couldn't—he had agreed to do everything in his power to keep her from harming the history she so loved. The level of trust she had in him was…staggering.

"So what were your other reasons?"

He shrugged. "Finding out that Rufus was recording our missions for Rittenhouse."

Her thumb resumed its meditative rhythm, now against his chest, as if to soothe his suddenly erratic heartbeat. Because recording their missions—essentially spying on them—had not only pissed him off monumentally, but had introduced a measure of doubt about everything they were doing. Doubt wasn't something he was a big fan of—not when it came to work. He was an enlisted guy—a grunt. He unquestioningly accepted orders and carried them out without hesitation because hesitation could get a man killed. It was absolutely ingrained into his nature to trust that the orders he'd been given were for the greater good and that everyone on his team was on the same page.

_Liar._

Again, that damned annoying voice piped up. Because he wasn't just a run-of-the-mill enlisted guy. Not for a long time. As a Master Sergeant, he'd been that guy—the one others looked at to reassure them the orders they were getting from command weren't bullshit suicide missions. When it came down to it, he was the one tasked with protecting his people, so questioning and even challenging had become just as ingrained into his nature as following orders.

He'd never doubted that Rufus was all in. Like Flynn reducing him to that once-bullied kid, discovering that Rufus and Mason and everyone above his grade were flat-out lying to him had felt like a massive betrayal. The kind that could get them all killed. He was furious that his instincts had let him down.

And he was furious that it could have gotten him—and Lucy—killed. Just as he was starting to want to live again.

"They threatened his family, Wyatt."

"I know. And I get it."

The man had been threatened with his family's safety and that was something the both Wyatt the soldier and Wyatt the man could respect. It was the uncertainty surrounding the rest of it that had left him on edge and yeah—angry as hell.

"And I'm worried about what it's all doing to him."

He turned his head on the cushion to find her staring up at the ceiling, a fine line creasing her brows.

"How so?"

"He killed a man, Wyatt and didn't…" Her lips pressed into a tight line, raising the tiny hairs on the back of Wyatt's neck.

"Didn't what?" he prodded gently when it seemed she wouldn't go on.

"Didn't feel anything afterward."

"He's in shock. Everyone processes differently. Remember how we talked about it in Germany?"

"I know, I know, but this doesn't feel like a case of getting over a hump. This feels—" She paused again, then turned her head on the cushion to meet his gaze. "It feels as if something integral to his very being has changed irrevocably. That something's been broken."

Without thinking, he lifted his free hand to her hair, smoothing it back from her face, and when his fingers caught on the elastic holding her loose ponytail in place, tugging it free. As he resumed slowly stroking her hair, unimpeded by restraints, she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, and something in him that he'd long felt frozen and dead, cracked.

"Well, we'll just have to help him piece it back together." Because regardless of the circumstances and the initial mistrust and the secrets, they'd somehow bonded into a team. And Rufus was at heart, a good man, trying to do right by his family and by the impossible task they'd been charged with.

She opened her eyes and studied him, her gaze so impossibly close, he felt as if she could see straight into him. See every demon he fought and every doubt he harbored, because regardless of rank or experience, he had so damned many, starting with his ability to protect them all.

"We?" she asked quietly, whisky-scented breath warm against his skin.

"Yeah, we.' His hand stilled, cupping the back of her head. "You told me you couldn't do this without me. Same holds true for me, Lucy. I can't do this without you. Whatever we're actually supposed to be doing, whatever side we're supposed to be on—I don't have a clue. Only thing I am absolutely certain of, is that you and me? We're supposed to be on the same side."

The line reappeared between her brows. "What if—"

He put a finger to her lips, stopping her. "Don't even think it. It won't happen. I won't let it."

"But—"

"No."

Like what she'd asked of him in the gazebo, he'd die himself before he allowed that to happen. What they—he—needed to do was take Flynn out and end this insanity before it broke them all irrevocably.

She blinked and smiled, the motion a small, subtle caress against the finger he still had resting against her lips.

"What is it?"

"You." Her gaze was growing unfocused, each blink a bit slower than the one before it.

"What about me?"

"You're my glue, Wyatt Logan." The words were soft and slurred. "More and more, you keep me from shattering into a million tiny pieces."

Her eyes closed and her breathing settled into a deep, steady rhythm. Slowly, Wyatt eased himself down to lie lengthwise on the couch, bringing Lucy along with him. With the weight of her head on his chest, her warmth cloaking his body, he felt his own body relax and slide toward the kind of sleep he hadn't experienced in far too long, like a memory, nearly forgotten, but always welcomed.

Just before he fell fully under, he whispered into her hair, "It's only fair—you're the one who started putting me back together."

He closed his eyes and smiled. "Ma'am."


End file.
